Jeff Benedict: My birthday reminded me to enjoy simple things

Childhood birthdays are about laughter, sweet things and great expectations. Adult birthdays are reminders. If I live as long as my life insurance policy predicts — 84 or thereabouts — I've still got a ways to go. But I'm past the halfway point. Sobering.

When I was a kid, I never understood why adults dislike birthdays. I recently turned 47. Now I get it.

When I was a kid, I never understood why adults dislike birthdays. I recently turned 47. Now I get it.

Childhood birthdays are about laughter, sweet things and great expectations. Adult birthdays are reminders. If I live as long as my life insurance policy predicts — 84 or thereabouts — I've still got a ways to go. But I'm past the halfway point. Sobering.

Last week my family vacationed at the beach. While there, my son Clancy turned 13. We celebrated by eating ice cream for lunch. Then we spent the afternoon building a sandcastle big enough for humans. At night our family watched a sidesplitting performance by comedian-conductor-pianist Victor Borge, followed by a late night board game. At the end of it all, Clancy declared: "I'm a teenager now."

Conversely, my birthday was an ordinary day. My gift to myself was to see how many simple pleasures I experience in my daily routine. Here' a peak.

I awoke before dawn, a beautiful woman sleeping beside me — not a bad way to start a day. Stealth, I sat up, noting that my back wasn't stiff. Mobility is a wonderful thing, especially in the morning. By 7 I was lifting weights in the workout room while watching Matt Lauer interview Cardinal Timothy Dolan.

I cherish the routine of starting every day with exercise and news consumption. By 8 I headed for the shower, another favorite pleasure of mine. But en route I encountered my 16-year-old son, Tennyson, in the kitchen. He interrupted by bliss.

"So how old are you now?" he said.

"Forty-seven."

"Wow, that's …"

"…old?"

He grinned. "Yeah."

I pursed my lips and nodded. "Thanks."

I could see that he was thinking of what to say next.

"Well," he said, "Sean Connery was voted sexiest man alive at 64."

"That's encouraging," I said. "I still have hope."

We both laughed. Then I took a long, hot shower. I do my best thinking there. Amazingly, more than half of the world population does not have access to a shower. Afterward came the sensation of foam shaving cream on my whiskers; the spray puff from my cologne bottle; and the smell and feel of a freshly laundered cotton shirt.

By this point, my bedroom was full of sunlight. I knelt at my bed, looked out the window at the trees and offered a prayer that consisted of one sentence: "Thank you for another day." I stayed on my knees for another five minutes. But brevity in prayer, as with writing, is my preference. And I seldom ask for anything other than mercy.

At breakfast, my 10-year old daughter Maggie said: "Dad, what do you want for your birthday?"

"Time."

"Hmm."

"Can you give me that?"

"I wish."

Instead she put her thin arms around me. We were alone in the dining room. I held her tight. It was a great birthday present.

I was at work by 9. As fate would have it, my college football book deadline fell on my birthday. I had 2,500 words left to write — so much for celebrating on my birthday.

But employment is a wonderful thing. Few things crush a man's pride faster than losing a job. My birthday card from my mother said: "Happiness comes from the capacity to feel deeply, to enjoy simply, to think freely, to be needed." That last part — to be needed — is so true.

Jeff Benedict is considered one of Americas top nonfiction writers. He is a special features contributor for Sports Illustrated, a columnist for SI.com and the author of 10 critically acclaimed books including "Poisoned," more ..